Less Than Noble Medicines
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: //MurphConn// Murphy was wounded andConnor tried EVERYTHING. Every single medicinal secret passed down by his mother's mother's sister twice removed...nothing worked. //Slash. Twincest. Drug-use.//


Nicholas: Hey guys. Want to know why I haven't been working on ANY of my chapter fics? Oh, this is why. Becki challenged me and it demanded my attention for about TWO WEEKS!!! I like it, though. I hate marijuana, but I like this. Like, lots.

Disclaimer: Don't own it, I swear. If I owned Connor AND/OR Murphy, I'd never leave my bedroom.

Rating: M...language...violence...drug-use...explicitness...

* * *

Screams, mayhem; sorting out the bullets that fired over head was as easy as taking gold from a leprechaun with lucky charms under his belt. The very air turned to something that panicked and the deafening bedlam crushed every eardrum in its wake. Everything stank like blood and war and the wood that protected their backs was quickly shattering to nothing. Shrapnel danced up into the dust, waiting for a heart to pierce or internal organs to damage in the midst of cataclysmic brutality. On one side, thirteen men, armed with automatics, semis, shotguns and basically things that would take more than an ear off. On the other…well, they were twins. Glancing up through the slanted crack in the fallen table behind the pair, the taller of the two weighed all chances of survival.

"We're fucked," his companion stated loudly. His voice snapped and jumped to the super sonic register as he tried frantically to load his 9mm Berretta. "We're fucked, we're fucked. Holy shit, we're way past fucked." Gloved hands grew frustrated with stumbling over smooth metal, so he bit into the middle finger of his left hand and tore off the useless article. After running his hand through dark locks of hair to rub off the sweat, he succeeded in slamming the clip in.

"Can ya shut yer loud, fuckin', yapper fer more'en three seconds?" The other twin—the one with the lighter hair, the darker skin, the narrower face, etc.—tried to ignore his brother's stating the obvious. "I know, we're fucked. Say it again an' I swear ta God I'll beat ya six ways to Sunday."

"Well, fuck you, ya daft git."

"What was that? I can't hear ya over the gunfire."

Grunting loudly in disdain, the fairer, dark-haired man lifted his gun over the table, his body raised just enough to get a clear aim and he fired six shots. "Well. Fuck. You. Ass. Hole." He snarled in between blasts and backfire.

"Well I'll be damned…" The blond watched five men either choke up blood, fall to the ground or slump over a table. "Nice shot, Murphy."

"I got the useful genes, I s'pose. Now fuckin' help me get a clear shot o' the fat one."

"They're all fat."

Sighing haggardly, the one called Murphy swatted the other upside the head. "The _fattest_ one, then. Yer not blind, Connor. The one with the hair."

Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Connor's reply was cut off by another drastic intensifying of over-head fire. _The one with the hair, indeed_, he thought sarcastically. Through what had to have been the acme of volume in this friendly brawl, he once more peeped into that crack in the table to see just whom the fuck this psycho was talking about. He noticed immediately that all but one of the men left standing were bald. Shiny, shaved skulls shimmered in the dim light, but the single cranium with fur to show for it bobbed in and out of sight.

"I oughta have a nickel fer every time ya make that face at me," Murphy stated, seeing an expression of utter astonishment from the other. "We might even be able ta afford cigarettes tha' don' make me wanna vomit."

"How in the name of all that is righteous and holy did ya notice him in the three seconds ya looked?"

"I am awesome and I am mighty and I say 'let there be light.'" Murphy shouted that last bit at the top of his lungs as he went up again to empty his cartridge into the mess of moving and not moving creatures back there. He never felt more god-like than when he was wreaking the will of God on scum and bastards like these. It was more than a euphoric high or adrenaline rush. This was his penance. This was his bible study, his piety, his prayer. Every last kick of that gun and bang of the barrel echoed up to the very halls of heaven above and rang out this deed he did in the name of his Creator.

"Fuckin' dramatic bastard," Connor muttered with a warm smile on his face. As horrifying as it was to watch someone he knew from birth completely change to primal before his eyes, he understood the feeling. This was their Calling and fuck if Murphy wasn't damn good at it.

The one bullet that Connor could trace and actually cared about the destination was the reason that Murphy flew backwards. He landed sideways on his right shoulder, gun slipping out of his hands across the ground. The man let out a shout and flipped onto his back, holding his shoulder with a tight, bloody grip. Red was disgusting. Red was about when Connor wanted to get the fuck out of there and forget he ever made a promise to Him. Ducking his head, he crawled as quickly as he could up to his fallen twin. "Murph!" he shouted, "Are ya alright?"

"Th'fuck d'ya think?" He tried sitting up, the stubborn bastard that he was, but he couldn't manage much that didn't hurt his arm. "Get me my gun, Connor. Do it!"

"No, yer done," Connor insisted, "I'll finish these fucks off and then get ya to a hospital." He shoved Murphy down in time to dodge what must have been a shotgun shell and then drew his pistol from the holster. "Stay the fuck down, ya hear?" He didn't wait for a response. Moving back to the table, he glanced over the top and saw five men left standing.

Behind him, and very unbeknownst to him, Murphy growled angrily and rolled awkwardly onto his hands and knees. The right leg wouldn't hold his weight and the feeling of slick blood ran down in steady gushes matching his heart beat. Careful to avoid putting himself into the barrage of bullets, he tore off the edge of his dark shirt and proceeded to tie it tightly around his shoulder, helping his one hand with his teeth. He crawled unsteadily a few inches and then snatched his gun up form the wood floorboards. With a dangerous rush of adrenaline, Murphy gripped the damn weapon in his left hand and prepared himself.

All Connor heard was a loud, incomprehensible battle cry and then he was shoved forcefully to the ground. In something like awe and horror, he watched his only sibling stand in the middle of the storm and fire left-handed at the surviving enemies. "You _stupid FUCK!!!_" He shrieked loudly, but the other was beyond hearing.

"Stupid FUCK! STUPID FUCK!!! _YOU STUPID BASTARD!!!_" Murphy winced because every time Connor repeated himself, he got a bit louder. "Do one _fuckin'_ thing I say, will ya!? You fuckin' idiot!" The good news was that the mobsters were dead. The bad news could be summed up in a word: paralysis. Murphy's right arm felt like it was paralyzed and both men hoped to God that it was temporary.

"I hear ya, I hear ya. God, can't _not_ hear an angry Irishman," he muttered the last bit just so that the blond wouldn't hear him.

"Oh, fuck yerself, ya bastard." With a glum expression, he hefted Murphy's arm over his shoulder and helped him hobble down the street. "I wanna know just what the fuck you were thinkin' pullin' the shite you fuckin' pulled ya lanky-assed, piss-sippin' git!"

"Ya got quite the mouth on ya there, Conn." His right leg was tingling while at the same time being stubbornly numb. He couldn't move well, thus the help from his brother, and he wondered just what exactly happened to him with that stupid bullet. "I think it hit a nerve. I can't even move my fingers." His lame arm flapped gawkily at his side, making him feel unbalanced and clumsy. "It doesn't even hurt, it just feels weird, all tingly an' shite."

Then, Connor looked sideways at him, a pained look on his face. Sure the bloke had done something stupid, but he could never stay mad at his brother especially when he's in this condition. "If ya weren't such an idjit, I'd pity you. And if ya weren't my brother, I'd kick yer fuckin' arse."

Murphy smirked awkwardly, still limping so that he completely relied on his twin for support. "I'm glad ya love me. Let's get home."

It took about three days for Murphy to be able to bend his arm completely and flex his fingers, but then another malady befell him. It annoyed him that even now that he could move properly, he shook so bad that he couldn't hold a cigarette. It was like Tourette's without the random "FUCK! ASS!" out of nowhere and the stuttering. He couldn't perform simple tasks like he usually would with his dominant hand. Writing turned out like chicken scratch, he had to rely on Connor to open his beer and hold the shampoo bottle to wash his hair. To add to that, masturbating was a bitch left-handed.

Where the fuck was Connor? Murphy had been trying and failing at getting a cigarette lit for the last half-hour. His twitching was now not only a damaged nerve, but from acute withdrawal. "I need to smoke," he snapped at the ceiling as if he thought God cared whether he recovered from this or not. For the third time, his lighter fell out of his hand. "Oh, shite on a stick…"

Unhappy eyes glared down at the floor where that shiny silver box lay. He was at the end of his rope with this. He lifted his hand before his face and watched the shivering limp with disdain. "Connor!" he shouted aimlessly. "Git yer arse home!"

"Hold on ta yer bollocks." Connor was right outside the door one moment and then inside the next. The look on his face said, "keep your pants on" even though there was something strange in his smile. "How's the arm?"

"Complainin' worse'en you on Valentine's Day."

"Still twitchin' then?"

"No, I'm jus' practicin' fer when I conduct the Philharmonic." Murphy stood form his seat on that grubby, old couch by the door and bent to pick up his Zippo. As he looked up, he rolled his cigarette between his lips. "Mind helpin' me out a bit?" he asked, offering Connor the lighter with a shaky hand.

"I don' get it, Murph." Connor took the little metal box, flipped it open and lit his twin's cigarette without argument. "I've tried everything. Absolutely nothin' will get rid of these fuckin' shakes."

"Yeah, I thought fer sure the massage the other night would work."

"Don't be perverse, alright?" Connor snapped. He went to the three legged table in the corner of their studio apartment and began to empty his pockets. It wasn't like there was much to empty out of them; a pack of Marlboros, a Zippo that matched Murphy's, about a dollar thirty-five in change and a little baggie. "So I decided ya ought ta try somethin' else." He tossed Murphy the little plastic bag.

With a surprised scoff, Murphy struggled to catch the thing. His first instinct was to put out his right hand, but that failed at getting a hold of it, so he had to reach with his left at the last minute. He sent a sharp glare in Connor's direction, but decided to ignore the smirk. Looking into the bag, he saw a dark green plant packed tight with a few, small sheets of paper. "Th'fuck is this?"

"Marijuana."

Eyes fluctuated wide then narrow, shifting between his brother and the baggie that he had no choice but to hold in his left hand. He couldn't focus on it otherwise. "This is your miracle cure, then?"

"Hey, I asked around and this is the best I could come up with. Remember that girl, I think her name was Rebecca or somethin'? Well, she knows a guy who knows a guy and was able ta hook me up." A sly smirk still lingered on his lips as he pulled off his coat and crossed the room.

"What do I do with it?" Murphy called after his back. He'd never done MJ before and he was quite skeptical of his brother about it at the moment.

"Smoke it, genius. I'mma take a shower."

In a nutshell, it worked phenomenally well. There was no more shaking arm and Murphy was no longer dependent on his brother for everything short of wiping his ass. It was a wonderful feeling really, and Murphy never stopped thanking Connor for it. The only downside was that he had to keep smoking it. He didn't have to be higher than a kite, but so long as he stayed under the influence, the effects remained strong. Connor didn't like it. It smelled worse than cigarette smoke and it was just one more thing he had to set aside money for. Additionally, the last thing he wanted was his brother to get addicted to it. So far, Murphy was being good about pacing himself, but how long would that last?

"Murphy, stop eatin' so much. We can't afford it."

The dark-haired Irishman looked up at his brother in the midst of blowing a smoke ring up to the ceiling. With a dazed look, he took another hit and pushed himself up on his bed. "What d'ya mean?" He was proudly holding the joint between the fingers on his right hand.

"I mean we don' have enough money ta buy ya food every time ya get the munchies. Slow down with that shit, will ya?" Connor wasn't angry, even though he sounded like it. He just didn't like working his ass off for the sake of something that Murphy could live without—tremors or no. "I don' mean ta be pushy, but Jesus…take a break for a bit."

"Sorry, but I'm happy with being able to sleep on my right side fer once an' sketch on the wall." He motioned to the far wall where his collection of images had grown ever since he could use his hand again.

"Tha's fine," the blond sighed, "jus' don't overdo it an' make me regret givin' ya that shite."

"Ye should try it." Murphy sat up cross-legged on the mattress and beckoned his brother with the wave of his hand. His eyes were slightly dilated and there was a stupid smile on his face that certainly spelled trouble, but Connor always trusted that tone of voice above anything else. "Trust me, you'll feel good. I hate it when you're stressed out, especially because of me."

"It en't yer fault," Connor argued, taking careful steps towards his brother.

Once the other was close enough, Murphy grabbed his arm and tugged him the last few steps to the mattress. He was anything but rough when he sat Connor down. He finished off a quick drag before he offered the thing to his twin. "It's relaxin'," he insisted happily.

Uncertainly, Connor took the blunt and eyed it. He felt fingers stroke his shoulder, but it didn't seem as odd as it should have right then. "Is it really?"

"Trust me."

Connor did. He put the paper end between his lips and drew in a deep breath. Just like smoking…except completely different. For a moment, his head swam and then his muscles felt slack, his body calm. Blinking a few times, he turned to Murphy and smiled. "Okay, I officially trust you."

One drag led to another and that to yet another and an entire cycle started. Murphy rolled a second joint and lit it up without Connor's immediate notice. As smoke floated up and lingered about the ceiling, the twins took to bonding like they hadn't in a _long_ time. Between work, church, community service and dodging unneeded police attention, they hadn't actually been able to really talk. Then Murphy was temporarily incapacitated. When God shuts one door, he opens a window. So they lay side by side passing paper-rolled intoxication back and forth between them.

"I can't believe I let ya keep this shite to yerself," Connor commented lightly.

"So ya like it, that's good." Murphy finished off the blunt and turned to his brother, head sliding languidly over the pillow. Little pigmies of ideas floated around his foggy mind and he had a bit of inspiration. Turning onto his side slightly, he reached out, carefully placing his hand on Connor's stomach.

With a raised eyebrow, the blond looked up and then questioningly at the other. "Why's that?" he asked.

"I wouldn't wanna make ya do somethin' ya didn't want ta do."

"Liar…" He sighed and put a hand behind his head. Without realizing it, he touched Murphy's hand that lay on his shirt-clad torso. It didn't seem odd at the time, even feeling Murphy sort of cuddle up to his side. "Got anymore?"

"Nope, we just finished off the last of it." The ebon-head liked this. He liked that Connor didn't push him away from being touchy. It was nice to touch him, even if just like this, with little, friendly pets. It made him feel just a bit more fulfilled. Then again, it also kept him wanting more. You see, Murphy had a dirty, little secret, one he didn't even tell Connor, and right now he was having a hard time keeping it. He was having trouble keeping his hands to himself. Brushing his fingers up, he found them stroking gently at the stubble on Connor's neck.

Blue eyes opened wide for a moment and then he blinked rapidly for a few moments, as if some great epiphany came to mind. "Murph, what're ya doin'?"

"It's the weed. Takin' control o' my mind."

"…liar…" Connor picked up the other's hand and held it away from him. "What were ya doin'?"

Murphy smirked wryly as if to say, "you know what I was doing." He pulled away from Connor's grip and quickly reached for his brother once again. "I'm jus' touchin' ya. Anythin' wrong with that?" His fingers petted lightly over the other's stomach.

Raised eyebrows and a deep sigh, and then Connor shrugged lightly. He didn't really have it in him to argue at the moment, and really, what was wrong with touching? It seemed alright for a while; it was almost as if this was some aspect of brotherly love that they had been missing for a long time. Except that the way Murphy went about this was hardly brother-to-brother at all. "Murphy…"

"Hush," the dark-haired one snapped, propping himself up on his elbow. "Relax, brother." With his mouth now just inches from blond hair, he had to fight not to kiss him. He had to suppress every urge that he felt not to rush his intentions.

Thin digits traced along the collar of his shirt before Connor realized that something was off. The pad of a thumb pressed against his collar bone and he grabbed the offending hand and pulled it away, once more depriving Murphy of what he wanted. With a slightly disappointed whine, Murphy took some incentive and wrenched his wrist free before running his palm down the front of the other's body.

"Wait!" Connor felt the pressure on the crotch of his jeans before he realized what was happening. He owed it to the marijuana that he was this slow and out of it. "What the fuck're ya doin'?"

Pressing down with a bit more purpose, Murphy pressed his lips against the blond spikes by his head.

A bit slower that he would have liked his first reaction to be, the blond Irishman tried to push him away. "Stop!" he squeaked, his body jumping up in semi-surprise.

Suddenly, Murphy was on top of him. Connor didn't quite get it as his twin pinned his wrists down to the bed. It didn't really translate in his foggy brain that Murphy was doing anything that he shouldn't have been doing. It was blissful ignorance until he felt a hot, soft tongue slide up his throat. In a flash, he was frightfully alert and struggling against the grip on his arms. "Murph! Knock it off!"

In the midst of the flickering smoke and diminishing light, jean-clad knees pressed against Connor's sides and lips that should never be familiar this way were forced down firmly against his. He cried in the back of his throat, a muffled sound barely coming into existence before it was snuffed out by the dark one's insistence. The blond bent his knees, pulled his arms against Murphy's grasp and tried to give himself some leverage to get free. He didn't like this, being held helpless beneath someone, even with how much he trusted Murphy.

He jerked his head to the side and he stole his breath back. "Wait…wait…" Two seconds later his hands were free to wander and Murph was massaging down his sides and nipping lightly at his ear lobe. "Should we?… This isn't normal…" There they were at his groin again with Murphy's persistent touch. Once again, he tried to reach down and move him away, but it wasn't the black-haired brother that stopped him this time. Something nagging in his mind…well…in his jeans, actually. "I mean I like it…but wait…oh, fuck yes! I mean no!" Groaning at the heat welling inside of him, he grabbed a handful of dark hair and pulled tight. "Wait…SHIT!"

"I told ya ta trust me, Conn." Pale hands sneaked under Connor's shirt and lifted it high on his chest "Ya said ya trust me, so relax." Lithe fingers danced over stiff nipples and Murphy relished in Connor's uncertain moan. He kissed him lightly on the lips and then pecked the tip of his nose playfully.

Connor's back lifted from the mattress when he felt his nipples pinched hard. This shouldn't have been making him feel so hot because, Christ, his _brother_ was touching him. Not just touching him, he was making him feel so… "Why…?"

"You're pretty, that's why. Now hush."

For a moment, the blond was taken aback. Sure, the other was still touching him, one hand now gripping the front of his jeans trying to undo the button. The last thing Connor would have considered himself to be was pretty. It felt to awkward to hear it from his twin like that, like he was something just there to be admired. They shouldn't have been in bed like this, shouldn't have been anywhere like this, and Connor couldn't make sense of much. He was dizzy enough to have heard wrong, but…pretty? Really now?

"What?" he breathed awkwardly. He felt his jeans loosen and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Did you get me high to try this?" Letting his accusation go unanswered, Connor yanked on his brother's hair and slammed their mouths together, testing that feeling before he decided that he liked it.

Wet lips, light smacking noises and warm tongue were making a jumpy, erratic trail down his neck and stomach. He knew that he shouldn't be letting this happen and especially shouldn't be losing his handle on up and down because of that Murphy was doing to him. "Wait," he whimpered quietly, pulling insistently on dark locks to try and stop that rushing heat. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Sure you didn't…"

It was a distant sound to Connor's ear, forcing it's way through the drug-induced high and the rush of blood in his ears. All was hurrying down south, moving to where it shouldn't have been, not like this. Why was Murphy doing _this_ to him? The mystery would probably never be solved, but the important thing was…his jeans were being pulled down. Out of all the people he'd ever kissed, Connor remained strictly virgin. Apparently, Murph had more than a qualm or two about that.

For a long while, all Murphy could do was stare avidly at the bulge in the other's boxers. A revelation floated across his mind that "this was it." All of those naughty fantasies and dirty little secrets, nights of sneaking a wank with brother's name on his lips, they were all surfacing. This was reality, this hardness of Connor's; his gentle whimper; his beautiful body writhing beneath Murphy looking all disheveled with shirt thrust up to his neck, nipples hard and quivering with the muscles on his chest. It took all the control in the world not to tear the cloth into shreds to get it off. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Connor.

So he slipped the tips of his fingers under the elastic of the waistband and slid it gently over narrow, strong hips. Murphy spoke as he placed a loving kiss on the jut of that joint. "I can't make ya love me like I do ye, but I can make ya feel _so_ fuckin' good."

The moment his erection sprang free of the clothing, Connor felt hot, wet lips touch him where he only ever touched himself before. _This is wrong_, he told himself over and over again. He glanced down at the dark head that was attention to his swollen organ and thought it might have been the biggest mistake of his life. His member twitched, sending jolts through his nerve. _This is wrong_, he repeated in his head, but he couldn't say it. A scalding, damp, gentle mouth opened around his balls and he knew immediately that it wasn't true. It was too right, too good…too _omyfuckinggodneedmore_.

"Yessssss," the blond hissed at length. "God, Murph!" He almost choked on his own words, feeling his throat contract as warm, slippery and tight lips closed around his Southern head. Heat and fire and _passion_ engulfed him from tip to toe and those toes did curl like never before.

Connor woke up on his side, nearly in the fetal position wrapped up in familiar arms. It was almost as if he could still feel the remnants of an orgasm pulsing through his limbs, but even he knew that that was ridiculous. Reaching out, his hand stroked flesh, fingers ghosting over that scribbled tattoo over Murphy's left nipple. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined touching his twin this way. It was so foreign that it was border-lining uncomfortable.

Blue eyes flickered open as the dark-haired brother stirred. For a few moment's hesitation, he took in the expression that stared him down through the darkness. "Ya okay with this, Conn?…or d'ya hate me now?" The following silence damn near terrified him. He hadn't thought about the consequences of Connor's reaction when he'd sucked him off earlier. It didn't seem like it would be a problem, until now. Now the blond was taking too long to think about this. Murphy held him tighter, closer to him and whispered: "Please don' hate me…I can't ever lose ya. Not now, not _ever_."

After he'd allowed his surprise to pass, Connor relaxed in that frightened embrace. "I don' hate ya, dummy," he reprimanded his brother for even considering that, "don' even think I'd leave ya now." He nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck like a kid seeking comfort from a parent.

"I thought I scared the shite outta ya last night." Pale fingers dug through blond spikes and caressed the back of a tan neck. "But I didn't lie. I literally couldn't fuckin' stop myself cause o' that shite."

"I'm glad ya didn't."

A relieved sigh forced it's way up from Murphy's tar-filled lungs. At the moment, he honestly believed he didn't have to hide his lust anymore and that was the most wonderful weight off of his shoulders. He hooked his leg around Connor's and pressed his lips into that light hair on the top of his head. "Nothin' coulda made me happier."

"But Murph…"

"Aye?"

Pulling away only slightly, Conn looked up into the set of eyes that mirrored his own and smiled lightly. "Murph, ya aren't shakin' anymore."

"I'm not--…" At first, the pale one had no idea what the other was talking about. Then he lifted his right arm and stared at it. "Fuckin'-A…Yer right."

"So ya don' gotta do weed anymore, right?"

Stopping in his tracks, Murphy took a moment to reconsider the upside of being cured. The shakes had kept it necessary to be high almost all the fucking time, and Murph _did_ like being high. He told himself that he wasn't addicted to the stuff, but now that he caught himself actually wishing he was still ailed by that infliction it alarmed him to come to the realization. "Right," he said at length, "I need ta quit that stuff anyway. I got a new drug right here." Smiling wickedly, he bent his neck and brushed his lips over the tantalizing muscles of Connor's throat.


End file.
